


Dozens of Lonely Christmases

by chzo_mythos



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Past Domestic Violence, Past Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 08:43:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chzo_mythos/pseuds/chzo_mythos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Late Christmas fic. A few of John and Sherlock's past Christmases alone, and their one together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dozens of Lonely Christmases

**Author's Note:**

> [johnnybooboo](http://johnnybooboo.tumblr.com) on tumblr did this [absolutely gorgeous](http://johnnybooboo.tumblr.com/post/71300304364/i-lived-through-dozens-of-lonely-christmases-just) piece of artwork for Christmas just an hour ago, and I was so inspired by it that I immediately sent and ask to get permission to write something to accompany it. I got it. It's 5:16AM, unbeta'd, unbritpicked. All mistakes are mine. I own nothing at all.

_Sherlock, age 7._   
Mother was in Milan, Mycroft said. She wouldn't be home until late January. She sent her regards. Even as young as he was, Sherlock knew, somewhere, that his brother wasn't ready for this. Their father had been dead for less than three months, and the barely 15 year old Mycroft Holmes was in no shape to be the patriarch. He tried, though, to his credit. Helping Sherlock decorate the tree and hang stockings (even though, Sherlock had insisted with a sneer that was far too old for such a young face, Father Christmas wasn't real), Mycroft had tried his best to make their Christmas something...passable. But he had his own things to work on, new responsibilities to tend to, and so it was the nanny, a portly French woman with a delicate touch yet a sharp voice that would keep Sherlock company on Christmas day, while the elder Holmes was shut up in their father's old study. Sherlock tells himself it's fine.

_John, age 11._   
Dad wasn't home. Mum was forcing a smile, telling little Johnny that everything was fine. Harriet wouldn't stop pouting into her plate at dinner. The presents had been nice, John had gotten the telescope he'd wanted, and Harriet got a new art kit, and their mother smiled and took photos. But there was an air hanging over the Watson household, as the flickering lights of their tree finally, one by one, burnt out. At 10pm, while Harriet snored softly from her room, John heard the front door open and heavy footsteps, a figure stumbling his way through the reception room. It was his father, he knew. He didn't like that he knew. When John woke up the next morning, there was a small dent in the wall and his mother winced when he hugged her. 

 

_Sherlock, age 11._   
It was stupid. Mycroft and his University were stupid. Mummy and her boyfriend were stupid, and their trip to Ibiza was stupid. Everything was stupid. The gifts he'd received were piled in the corner, unwrapped, save the book in his lap—a gift to himself, one he nicked from the restricted section of the library. He was alone in his dorm, which, while welcome, did nothing to help him forget that he was still there. He wasn't the only one unable to go home, some of the exchange students stayed, and some of the older "rebel" boys who smoked behind the observatory. The school had their own decorations, their own traditions, their own feast. All of it certainly comparable to what Sherlock had grown up with, in taste and expense. And yet, here he was, choosing instead to read about infamous poisons and most certainly not thinking about the estate, about Mycroft, about Mummy, about Christmas. None of it. It was stupid. 

_John, age 15._   
They were fighting again. They were always fighting. But, when John went to bed on December 24th, he thought that, perhaps, tomorrow wouldn't be as bad. That tomorrow they would be a family. It's obvious to him now—huddled in the furthest corner of his bedroom, knees pulled to his chest, desperately trying to block out the sound—that he was an idiot for thinking anything would change.

 

_Sherlock, age 20._   
It. Was. Cold. Obviously, of course, it was December, but still, it was colder this year than Sherlock could remember. Then again, he'd never spent Christmas in an alleyway before. His thin hoodie did little to keep the chill from his equally thin frame, but there's nothing for it now. He'd dropped out of school, been evicted from his flat, and he was fairly certain if he tried the estate, he'd be shot on sight. Not that he would ever dream of going back there. And anyway, he'd keep warm, or, at least, forget the cold even existed when he was through tonight. It'd taken some panhandling, and minor burglary, but Sherlock had earned himself a Christmas treat, he’d been good. Karl, his dealer, had been unsurprised to see him on such a jolly occasion, and promised Sherlock the best high he’d ever had. Merry Christmas to him. 

_John, age 24._   
It. Was. Hot. As was to be expected, really, it was just as hot as any other day. It was weird to even think it was Christmas. They were back at a base, relatively safe for the moment, though always on alert. He'd lost track of the days, honestly. He knows it's been a year, give or take, since he shipped out, and he knows he's in for a lot longer. The rest of his regiment is exchanging gifts—small things, what they could get in Afghan markets, or what they could make, in some cases, and John knew that the surgeons would be getting a new Christmas kit, scalpels and tourniquets, everything he's been needing, well, more of recently. He hates that he's needed them at all. 

 

_ Present. _

"Really? You're not even going to get properly dressed?"

There's an indignant noise, followed by an expected—and, quite honestly cliché—"what for?"

John rolls his eyes. 

"You agreed, Sherlock. People are coming over. You really want them to see you in your dressing gown?" 

Another noise, this time followed by a small thud, and when John looks up from his novel, he can see Sherlock stepping across the coffee table. 

"I don't see why this matters to you" he says, taking a seat on the arm of John's chair, John only moving himself just in time to not get his arm trapped under long legs. John shrugs and slings his arm around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock leans into the embrace, and John's heart flutters, only a little, and by God if that isn't the gayest thing that's happened to him since they had sex this morning, he doesn't know what is. 

"I’ve never liked being alone on Christmas" is John's reply, craning his neck up to place a chaste kiss on Sherlock's jawline. The detective frowns slightly, though his eyes soften as he moves so they lock with John's. 

"I've lived through dozens of lonely Christmases, just to find you"

And—it's unexpected enough that John's breath catches in his throat and there's a moment where he thinks he imagined it, but that moment fades quickly as Sherlock moves forward, kissing John properly. And John, the sap he is, grins, effectively ruining the kiss, but the upturned corner of Sherlock's mouth doesn't speak so much of protest. 

The moment may pass but it doesn't fade, even when they pull away and John swats his hand playfully against the detective's hip. 

"Go get dressed. Or you won't get your other gift tonight."

It's Sherlock's turn to roll his eyes, though he does as he's told, flipping John off from the doorway when the doctor mumbles something about it being a 'Christmas miracle'.


End file.
